


Needs Must

by Sadistrix



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Drug-Induced Sex, F/F, Finger Sucking, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Object Insertion, Restraints, Threats of Rape/Non-Con, Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-27
Updated: 2020-06-27
Packaged: 2021-03-04 07:16:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,779
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24709726
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sadistrix/pseuds/Sadistrix
Summary: Angela swallows hard, already not keen to imagine exactly what it is Moira has planned for her. She’s heard horror stories of what happens in Moira’s lab, let alone what she could be up to in a place so far from the well-funded facilities of Oasis.
Relationships: Moira O'Deorain/Angela "Mercy" Ziegler
Comments: 12
Kudos: 72
Collections: Heat Fic Summer 2020





	Needs Must

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fayharley](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fayharley/gifts).



“If you were more cooperative, I might not have needed to involve Talon,” Moira points out as though she’s simply making conversation. Angela isn’t surprised to find that she remembers the flow with which Moira works, the way she gestures even with her hands otherwise occupied in an unhurried, unbroken cadence. Her shirtsleeves are rolled and cuffed neatly, tie held in place with a silver pin bearing Talon’s insignia. She’d look sharp by comparison even if their surroundings were less dingy. As it is, she looks terrifyingly well put together for an operation that seems as though someone threw it together out of an abandoned meth lab only moments before. “I had hoped you would see the benefits of being my colleague in Oasis. No need for all of,” she gestures around them, “this. But you should know by now that I always do what I must.”

Angela struggles against the restraints holding her in place, but she doesn’t have nearly enough leverage to give her a prayer of breaking them and the Valkyrie suit’s propulsion mechanisms aren’t responding. It’s been offline since the Talon ambush, cracked and pried apart at the joints in a series of surgically calculated strikes that tell her someone within Talon knows far too much about how her Overwatch-legacy tech works.

If only that could be her most pressing concern right now.

She shivers at the feel of Moira’s hand on her arm, pushing back the torn pilot suit to bare her skin, and Angela can only look on helplessly as Moira brings a needle down to the crook of her arm and injects her with an unknown substance.

It burns from the moment she depresses the plunger. Angela puts up another token struggle, already knowing it’s no use.

“ _What_ was that?” she spits the moment Moira removes the gag from her mouth, trying to cover her fear with fury. Angela has long known better than to think showing her any weakness won’t lead to worse.

“A little something of my own devising,” Moira explains, rubbing her thumb over the puncture wound in a laughable mimicry of a respectable doctor’s bedside manner. All it does is spread the droplets of blood that well up over Angela’s inner arm: bright red fading to a dirty, iodine-colored smudge against her pale skin. “You should be honored, Angie. I’ve been saving it just for you.”

“You want to make me another of your failed experiments?”

Moira scoffs, but Angela watches her eyes narrow, expression darkening. “It’s not failure so long as you gather new data. Though I’m not surprised to hear you’re as closed-minded as ever.” She shrugs, gaze dropping again to the puncture wound in the crook of Angela’s arm. “But I suppose I have faith in my ability to fix that.”

“What do you mean?” Angela demands.

“Oh, you’ll see. Now do me a favor and stay put. I have some other business to attend to.”

She crosses the small, dilapidated room, moving so that Angela has to crane her neck backwards to see what Moira’s up to. There’s a broken door frame covered haphazardly with a tattered sheet of fabric, and then the edge of a table stretching just past her line of vision in the opposite direction. Angela swallows hard, already not keen to imagine exactly what it is Moira has planned for her. She’s heard horror stories of what happens in Moira’s lab, let alone what she could be up to in a place so far from the well-funded facilities of Oasis.

Moira pushes the stained curtain aside and Angela gets a split second glance of a cluster of uniformed figures: deep red and black armoring that, while unmistakably Talon, definitely don’t belong to just any shock troops. She has to fight back the sensation of bile in her throat, but works her wrist against the cuffs and tries desperately to commit the operatives’ gear to memory before the curtain falls back into place.

And then she’s alone.

She’d thought the room was cold before, exposed to every draft with her suit in pieces against her limbs, but sweat begins to form at the back of her neck and around her hairline as Angela counts the cracks in the wall and tries to puzzle out where Talon could possibly be keeping her hostage. Her pulse is fast and Angela keeps count of that too - spiking ever upward no matter how much she slows her breath and wills herself to relax. The longer she can keep Moira’s drug from taking hold in her system the better, the higher the chance of a timely rescue…

Her heartbeat pounds against her jaw.

Her ribs.

And then lower.

Angela shifts as much as she can on the makeshift exam table. She feels suddenly feverish, undersuit damp against her skin, an ache settling between her thighs with a warm, heavy insistence.

It’s not dissimilar to the weight of her broken Valkyrie suit: clinging to the forefront of her mind, her limbs, her _skin_ in the humid room. She tugs at the restraints idly, more and more aware of the growing ache in the pit of her stomach with every moment that passes, the pulsing heat in her groin that’s beginning to make it hard to focus on much else. Angela presses her thighs together and almost forgets herself enough to moan aloud at the too-brief tease of contact.

There’s no denying how swollen her labia are with the next frustrated flex of her limbs against the restraints. Angela feels herself blush furiously at the thought. Somewhere on the other side of the curtain she can hear voices, just low enough that she can’t pick up on what’s being said. Here she is, surrounded by Talon forces with no way of knowing who’s watching or what’s going to happen to her if Overwatch doesn’t mount a rescue in time, and Angela doesn’t know that she’s ever been so desperately turned on in her life. She only narrowly avoids squirming in place again, muscles trembling with the need to move, to be touched... 

There’s a sudden outbreak of laughter and Angela squeezes her thighs together reflexively before she can stop herself, hoping against hope she’s not been the cause.

If only she had a hand free to touch herself.

Heat crashes like lightning across Angela’s skin at the unbidden thought, her pulse racing out of control. She wouldn’t be able to stop herself even if everyone was watching. Just a little more pressure, enough to push against; her thighs are already tensing again and she angles her hips, ashamedly seeking any relief she can get. She can’t bring herself to hold still. Her leggings are already wet against her skin and Angela worries that it must be obvious. They’re laced with a nanotech fiber for protection out in the field, but thin enough that it certainly wouldn’t take long for her fluids to soak through them. If only she could manage to think straight -

“Don’t tell me you’ve gotten started without me,” Moira startles her with the interruption; Angela hadn’t heard her come back. Immediately she worries what Moira might have seen, trying not to give her the satisfaction of letting her watch her succumb to whatever it is burning through her veins.

“You-” she splutters, already flushing anew with the sound of her own voice so high and breathy. Angela forces herself to breathe in, hands clenching in the restraints as she tries to keep herself from squirming beneath Moira’s scrutiny. “What,” she tries again, but that’s hardly better, “what did you,”

Unexpectedly, Moira laughs. “All those fancy accolades,” she muses, “and here you are, stupid as a kitten.” Her fingers ghost against Angela’s forehead and she pushes into the touch before she can stop herself. Obligingly, Moira’s hand drifts lower, her pinky teasing at Angela’s lower lip all too fleetingly before coming to settle beneath her jaw. She must be able to feel how Angela’s heartbeat skips at the contact.

“You’ve never been all that interested to hear my methods,” she continues, watching as Angela tries to lick the lingering sensation from her lip with the kind of predatory focus that makes her blood sing. “Judge them, certainly…” Her nails dig into the side of Angela’s neck for a split second. “Do pardon me for savoring the moment.”

The phrasing alone drags a half-remembered fantasy to the forefront of her thoughts: Moira’s lips on her neck, cornered against her own desk, intentions spilled out so clearly in every rough, groping handful of flesh she took. If Angela had let her, she’d never doubted Moira would have savored every moment of that too. Every inch of skin, every last bit of her. “Please,” Angela moans, so transparently needy that she would clap a hand over her mouth if she could.

This time she’s not surprised when Moira laughs at her. “The state of you,” she says as though she can barely believe it herself. There’s an odd note of pride in her voice and somewhere in the back of her mind Angela knows that it’s not meant for her - it’s the delight Moira only takes in her own experimentation, the thrill of an unparalleled success - but it twists her stomach up into knots all the same. She’s already left wondering what she could do to coax that same excitement out of her once more, no matter how much Angela hates herself for it. “ _Adorable_.”

She shifts again, thighs rubbing together, and can’t keep herself from whimpering. It’s nowhere near enough.

“Touch me then,” Angela grits out, frustrated, sure she must be tomato-red with shame no matter how much venom she tries to inject into the words. “That’s what you wanted, isn’t it?”

“I’m not certain you’re ready,” Moira counters, dragging her fingertips down the tendon in Angela’s neck. The cool pressure is a welcome relief from the heat still building beneath her skin, sweat-damp skin tingling in the wake of being touched at last, her insides clenching desperately in cataclysmic, chaining reaction. Her legs twitch as far as the restraints will let them and Moira makes a sound from within her throat. “A bit longer, I think.”

“ _Longer_?” Her voice breaks, turning the word into barely more than an undignified squeak.

“Mmm,” Moira agrees wordlessly, toying with the torn fabric sticking to Angela’s esophagus.

There’s something terribly calculated in her expression as she looks Angela over, and Angela wishes she could begin to decipher it. As it is, all she can focus on is the way Moira’s eyes linger on the fabric bunched between her legs, the deep gouge in her chestplate Angela needs so badly for her to shove her fingers into and pry from her skin… She tries to twist herself into a more enticing tableau in the hopes of coaxing even just another spare touch from her: struggling to spread her thighs, arch her spine as much as the broken suit encasing her will allow. Her nipples are hard and almost too sensitive already where they rub against the innards of her flight suit.

“I do wish you could see yourself,” Moira muses, peeling the thin lining back further until it pulls against Angela’s chestplate. “Perhaps a recording would suffice, but had I known you had this in you, Doctor…” she chuckles to herself.

“-In me,” Angela echoes before she can stop herself, breathless with a need she’d barely been able to conceive of until Moira had planted the suggestion in her head. The ache between her legs catches, already racing towards conflagration. She shudders. Moans.

“That’s getting a bit ahead of ourselves, but what would you like in you?” Moira humors her.

“Anything,” Angela breathes. “Everything. Fill me, I-”

“Mhmm, you wouldn’t want someone to hear you talking like that, now would you?” Moira muses, pushing her slender fingers into Angela’s mouth with no care as to her nails. They catch on the corner of her mouth and scrape the inside of her cheek, but Angela can’t stop herself moaning again and trying to suck them in deeper. It’s nowhere near enough, but she needs so badly to be filled it hardly matters. Any way she can get Moira to take her, be _inside_ her…

“You’re too good for that,” she continues, leisurely fucking Angela’s mouth with her fingers as though it could be an afterthought. There’s a slight flush to her cheeks and across her nose, a single strand of hair falling onto her forehead at last. “Ever the professional. Or was that always for show too? Do tell me, Angie, if I let my strike team have a crack at you too, would it feel like old times?”

She shudders at the suggestion, not sure if she’s more horrified by the idea of Moira letting the Talon team have their way with her, or how badly she wants anything Moira is willing to do to her so long as it gets her off, eases this senseless burn beneath her skin and fog in her head. “Y- your team?” She has the suspicion that should mean more to her than it does. No doubt they can hear her too, but the humiliation of having witnesses to this only feeds into that same perverse feedback loop of want and need and -

“Needs must,” Moira explains, unrepentant. “Of course, you wouldn’t understand that now, would you? So prim and proper,” she says as though the words themselves are filthy, punctuating herself with short little jabs of her fingers that nearly make Angela gag. “Far too timid to ever let me wreck you properly. The golden girl of Overwatch, always trying so hard to be taken seriously. You’ve never gotten down in the dirt your whole life.”

Angela can’t tell if it’s bitterness or anticipation coloring her tone, but she slurps at Moira’s fingertips and tries to give the impression that she’s nowhere near as timid as she once was, far too desperate to be shy despite how her blush must go from the tips of her ears to her navel. It all blurs into the heat burning away beneath her skin, soaking into her leggings. She can’t think to do anything beyond goading Moira into having her way with her. She certainly can’t be seen like this by Overwatch, can’t-

“Oh, Angela,” Moira sighs, grasping her tongue just long enough for Angela to feel how thoroughly she’s in control of every last part of her. It’s almost reverent. Then she pulls her hand back and wipes her fingers off on the side of her thigh, and Angela is left open-mouthed and panting from the lack of contact. “I’ll drag you down to my level if it ruins us both.”

She’s breathless, but she tries. “You’d never.” Angela arches against the restraints again, unable to tear her eyes away from following Moira’s fingers, no matter what she might see in her expression. It’s a truly embarrassing level of distraction.

At last they settle on her armored suit again, centimeters from the crack spanning Angela’s chestplate. “I’ve destroyed far more for less,” Moira assures her, drumming her fingers on the thick plate in a way that carries the faint vibrations all the way down to where it ends - just below her hip bones - frustratingly, achingly, short of where Angela needs to be touched. She whines in her throat.

“Yes?” Moira taunts her, slender fingers tracing the damage written across her suit’s construction. They slip lower, ever closer. Angela’s mouth waters anew, clitoris positively throbbing in time with her racing heart beat.

“Yes,” she pants out. “Please, yes.”

Out of her peripheral vision she sees Moira tilt her head ever so slightly, her nails just shy of touching the fabric balled up between Angela’s legs. It’s not entirely lost on her, even as mindlessly desperate as she is now, that the extra drape was meant to give her a bit more modesty. Such a perverse irony. Angela does her best to urge her on, tilting her hips, wordless noises of need forcing themselves from her lips.

“You really ought to see yourself,” Moira says with the kind of tone that pulls Angela’s gaze back to her face at last. There’s no way she could be as disheveled as Angela herself, but the flush to her cheeks is more pronounced, hair mussed as though she’s run a hand back through it.

To Angela’s addled cognition, she looks like the very embodiment of sex. Every last, dirty little fantasy she’s ever wanted to indulge. “Just fuck me,” she whines. “What do I have to say? Please,”

Her two-toned eyes brighten. “Oh, aren’t you just,” her fingers slip lower at last, grasping the fabric atop Angela’s pelvis and tearing it free of her suit with a determined yank. “...Delightful.”

She replaces her hand, rubbing Angela’s wet leggings into her flesh, and Angela is coming almost before she realizes it: toes curling, eyes shutting of their own accord, limbs pulling against every one of the restraints Moira has her imprisoned in.

It’s nowhere near enough. Angela pushes her hips up into Moira’s touch, greedy, riding her fingers for every last bit of sensation she can eke out. The burn beneath her skin barely subsides for even a moment. “More,” she’s already gasping, would grab Moira’s hand and hold it in place, press it harder against her if only she could.

Moira laughs, but she produces a scalpel from her coat and Angela does her best to hold still, thighs trembling, as she tears the sterile packaging and brings it down between her legs.

The sudden shock of cold against her overheated skin has Angela gasping again. Her hips twitch into the suggestion of Moira’s touch, cunt aching as though she’s been on edge for hours, clenching around nothing, impossibly desperate to be filled. Even Moira takes an audible breath, the sound racing over Angela’s overheated skin almost as tangibly as a caress.

“I should keep you like this,” Moira breathes, already pressing Angela’s wetness back into her skin, fingers gliding effortlessly over her labia and inner thighs, smearing Angela’s fluids further with every touch. She can smell herself already: that deep, musky scent of arousal it’s far, far too late to hide even if she wanted to. “Call it a bonus for exemplary work. The audio alone should make my case.”

“Just give me more,” Angela demands again even before Moira’s words can register. Whatever she has to say can’t be as important as having her fingers pressing inside her at last -

“...Audio?”

She’s not entirely surprised when Moira laughs. “You didn’t honestly believe I’d commit this to memory,” she gloats. “Not that it isn’t memorable, per say, but that doesn’t make for a presentation, now does it?”

The next moan Moira coaxes from her lips sounds horrified even to Angela’s ears. “Oh, please. No, I,”

“Oh don’t be modest,” Moira continues, insufferably amused, watching as Angela shudders through another insubstantial orgasm at the continued motion of her fingers. “What better proof of my abilities than to have sweet, pudish little Angie willing to debase herself for a touch?”

As if to prove her point, she presses just a bit more firmly. Finds Angela’s clit and watches as, helplessly reactive, Angela cries out and rocks her hips into the touch. She can’t help but cringe even as she does her best to fuck herself on the pads of Moira’s fingers, still trying to figure out how to angle her hips to force them inside. “I won’t,” Angela starts to say, but even she knows that ship has long since sailed.

She holds out for barely another minute before she’s coming again, that now-familiar burn sinking deeper into her skin, coaxing her lips open around words she knows she’ll never live down. “I need you inside me, I need,”

“Of course you do. And lucky for you, I’m willing to do one better.”

Her touch disappears and Angela nearly sobs with the loss of contact, already stuttering through another litany of half-coherent pleas. She can’t stop herself, can’t -

Can’t see what Moira is doing behind her or what she picks up from the table, only that it sounds heavy and substantial, and her mouth is already watering with the thought of something thick being pushed inside her, filling her up. And then she sees the object in Moira’s hands as she moves back into view.

Angela only just manages to keep herself from crying, though for lust or for shame she doesn’t know anymore. “Please,” she repeats, “no. Anything else,”

“Pity,” Moira says, as though it’s anything but. Her still-slick fingers twist around the bottom of Angela’s staff in a perverse imitation of digital stimulation. The sight shouldn’t be able to turn her on any further, but it does. It does with a vengeance that almost brings Angela to her senses, but then even that fleeting bit of surety is gone, and Angela can feel her own wetness dripping down over her taint at Moira’s threats. “You should know beggars can’t be choosers. And you’re going to beg me to shove this adorable toy up in you or I’ll let every last Talon grunt fuck you however they see fit.” 

The regret she can’t seem to feel now is going to be crushing later; Angela already knows it. She presses her thighs together again in the absence of touch and bites down on her lip until she tastes blood. Surely this will wear off eventually - but with that comes the sudden, terrifying thought of the drugs wearing off before Moira makes good on her promise to hand her over to the rest of Talon - “my girls and boys in uniform have an awful habit of breaking their toys,” Moira adds, pointedly. “I’d hate to let them have their way, but,”

“Needs must?” Angela counters, as bitterly as she can manage given the circumstances. Her skin burns with the humiliation as much as it does arousal, and the next time she squeezes her eyes shut, the corner of her eyes are wet.

“I’d thought you’d be convinced.”

There’s no preamble.

Moira lifts her staff - with none of the fluidity Angela has developed with it over the years in and out of the field - and then she’s pressing the blunted base to the inside of Angela’s thigh to steady it.

“Perhaps I’ll have to send a copy to your friends in Overwatch,” Moira continues, moving further down the side of the table to give herself a better angle. She’s so wet, so ready, that there’s barely any resistance when Moira pushes her staff home at last. “Show them what kind of healing they’ve been missing.”


End file.
